


On the House

by firearms57



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trust Issues, ethari is a good bean, ethari is everyone elses bewilderment, haha - Freeform, i guess that means im making fun of myself, its the coffeeshop au, lain is the best bro, ooOoO subtle foreshadow if you squint, runaan hates ted allen, runaan is basically just an outlet for my coffee snobbery, that i always wanted, there will be angst dont worry, tiadrin is a baking witch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28230024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firearms57/pseuds/firearms57
Summary: Ethari meets a barista that's more than he bargained for. He's smitten, all the same. Runaan struggles to keep from drowning within his own mind.
Relationships: Ethari/Runaan (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 29





	On the House

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the one person who cant hold their coffee.

_ On the house of my birth, there was a violet flower that puckered in bloom, and its petals were soft as dove’s feathers and its soul was a kindling flame. _

_ *  _

“Shit, shit,  _ shit _ .” 

Ethari seized the door handle and wrenched it, shoving the driver’s side door open with a surety that he normally reserved for those projects of his that required a guiding hand. Instead of swinging out onto one foot as expected, he planted on the asphalt, barely registering the pop of cracking plastic. A moment later, he was blinking down at the handle of his door — sadly no longer attached. 

He stared wonderingly for half a second before chucking it aside with a huffed “ _ For fuck’s sake” _ and stalking to the front end of his car to examine the damage. He winced as he walked — he’d smarted his hip against the console when the collision set off — but shrugged the pain off to better attend to his mess. A tree had taken residence in the center of the car’s hood, the fender and bumper had taken flight somewhere down the road, and one of his lights was busted. The hood was shot erect. 

_ That is...not good _ .  _ There goes my gaming budget for the month. _

He drew in a breath and released it through his teeth, gave up halfway through and dropped his forehead onto his raised hood.

“ _ Ow _ .” 

He shut his eyes and slipped a hand between car and flesh, sulking over lost sums and the new ache in his forehead. He gave himself a long minute to brood, then sighed and pulled out his phone.

_ Right. Time to adult. _

“911, what’s your emergency?” 

The operator sounded about as happy to be doing her job as he was standing on the curb beside his wreck of a car.

“Hi, yeah,” he began, cleared his throat and continued, “I want to report an accident.” 

“Anyone hurt?”

“Um, no.”

“Location?”

_ The second stage of grief _ .  _ My poor baby. My poor gaming budget. Guess I’ll have to wait until next month to romance Astarion.  _

“Uh…” Ethari winced, lifted his head off his hood, and squinted over to the opposite sidewalk. A patron on their way into the coffee shop had paused to look over in concern.  _ Great. Someone’s already staring _ . 

Ethari addressed the silence on the other line, which managed to convey entitled expectation so clearly that he could picture her penciled brows rising in disbelief. 

“Right off 17, where the road curves?” he said.

“17 and Lee,” she said. He heard the clacking of a keyboard, the definitive strike of the enter button. “A car will be over in a few minutes. You’re sure you don’t need an ambulance or something?”

_ Yes, please, can they fix my car? _

“Nah, I’m all good.” 

__ “Glad to hear it.” 

She did not, in fact, sound glad to hear it. 

The line went dead. 

Ethari held the phone to his ear for longer than was strictly necessary, then dropped his hand with an irritated scoff. In the pique of his fit, he managed to nick his phone on the folded bumper, pulling a layer of paint with it. It didn’t matter, he supposed; the car was totaled. Still. It seemed fate was exceeding just discipline and toeing over into mindless picking.

He dropped his thumbs into his pockets and settled in to wait. A few minutes, his ass. Local police were always slow on the uptake. His breath puffed warmly against his lips, flushed from his fluster and the chill air both. Autumn had set in a few weeks ago, and shy, early morning sun was doing the weather no favors. Ethari shivered, wishing he had more to wear than the jacket he’d plucked hastily from his bedroom floor on the way to work. His jeans were a poor excuse for a windbreak, too. 

Twenty minutes later, a squad car turned the corner, trilling once before pulling over behind him. The sheriff piled out, and Ethari moped over the smooth,  _ even  _ way the door opened. The sheriff thumbed the dial on his walkie talkie, said something to which a hissing reply crackled over the line, then sidled over. He left the lights flashing. 

“Good morning,” Ethari said glumly. 

“Hm,” the sheriff mused, “not a very good morning for you, is it, fella?” He moved around to the front of the car, rapped the hood and whistled sympathetically. “Yeah, that’s not going anywhere.”

Ethari’s shoulders slumped. He couldn’t have expected any less, but it was still disheartening to hear it stated so bluntly.

The sheriff pulled a pad of paper from his pocket. “Gonna have to file a damage report,” he said. “You got ID?”

“Uh, yeah.” Ethari flipped through his wallet, then handed over his license. He fiddled with his credit card while the sheriff scribbled away on his pad. 

“Nobody hurt, looks like?” the sheriff asked.

“No, yeah, I’m good,” Ethari said. He touched his hip gingerly. “Just a bit bruised.”

“Lucky, that. Bones don’t do too well against trees.”

When the sheriff finished, he returned Ethari’s license, pocketed his notepad and cleared his throat. “Look,” he said, “you seem like a good kid having a bad day, so I’m gonna cut you a break. Figure losing your car’s a better punishment than a ticket, anyway. I’ll call the tow for you. I know the guy, so I’ll put in a word for him to go easy on the bill, yeah?” 

Ethari brightened. That was something, at least.

The wind picked up, setting the trees murmuring, and Ethari shivered. 

The sheriff gave him a sympathetic look. “It’ll be a good hour before the truck gets here. Maybe go wait in that cafe down the block. Never been myself, but I’ve heard good things.” He paused a moment, then reached down and pulled a plastic card from his pocket. “Here, kid, got a card that I never end up using.” 

Ethari took the card without thinking, blinked, and stared down at it. “Oh,” he said faintly. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” The sheriff gave him a pat on the shoulder before turning back to his car. 

Ethari watched the car back away from the curb with a mournful twist to his lips. 

_ Ah, memories. _ He sighed.  _ Well, no use standing in the cold. If I’m gonna be miserable, might as well be warm and miserable.  _

He rescued his backpack from the back seat and set off across the street. His walk soon turned to a jog, the chill wind a proper motivation for him in his less-than-dressed state. When he made it the half block down the street, he pivoted on one leg, yanked the door open with three fingers gone numb from pesky November wind. 

Holiday bells chimed upon his entrance, and he might have spared a smile for the festive touch had his morning not gone so wrong. He took a minute to nurse his tingling hands, blowing warm air into reddened palms and tucking them into his pockets. 

“God, it’s cold,” he muttered, before turning his head up to address the room. 

It was small, he supposed, quaint, but not shoddy in the least. The walls were hardwood, the tables akin except for their shade, notably darker than their surroundings. Oil-stained, his crafter’s eye said, linseed; the sheen gave it away. A broad fireplace broke the wall in half, recently stoked and crackling merrily, well tended to. The entirety of the far wall was taken over by the bar, neat stacks of plates and silverware atop squared shelves, mugs hung off ceiling hooks, and a long row of coffee beans, tinned in nooks across the wall. 

There was the odd bunch of people through the room, a man pondering a croissant, and a young girl glued to her laptop screen. Not enough for the place to be called crowded, but enough to lend an air of community. Perfect, really. 

_ Jeesus, this place is straight out of a magazine _ .

Ethari took a seat by the window, firstly because it kept him promptly away from Snobville and its residents, and secondly because it gave him the perfect vantage to stare mournfully at his car. Which he planned to do. For a long time. Over coffee? He touched the card in his jacket pocket. 

_ Why not. _

He slid his backpack from his shoulders and set it on the high countertop, hoping it would be enough to keep anyone from claiming his seat. Not that it was busy, but he’d had  _ experiences. _

A grinder whirred to life as his feet touched ground. He spared a glance for the bar, curious, and nearly choked at the vivid blue he found waiting for him. The barista looked at him from beneath polished silver brows, one hand holding a mug beneath the tap, the other drumming thoughtfully along the bar. His lips curved when he caught Ethari looking, and he tilted his chin in greeting.

Ethari accepted the subtle invitation, moving across the room with half a thought. By the time he’d completed the journey, he found himself delightfully breathless and staring, hardly subtle. 

At Ethari’s approach, the barista pivoted smoothly on his heel, his hair a long flash of ivory, slid the mug from the tap and went to work on the milk. Ethari took the opportunity to study the man. Slender but strong, pallid yet darkly focused, he seemed made of contradictions, as puzzling as it was intriguing. 

The milk squealed and steamed, apparently unhappy with the way it was being tended, though Ethari wouldn’t have minded. 

“That your sudden deceleration across the street?” the barista inquired.

“My what?”

The man nodded toward the broad windows, and Ethari glanced as well. 

“Oh. Yeah, there was a cat running across the road. I guess I chose to hit the tree instead.”

A strangely soft look flickered across the man’s face before he said, “The cat and I thank you. What would you like? On the house.”

“Uhm.” Ethari cleared his throat. “Something hot?” 

The barista raised a pointed eyebrow, and Ethari flushed. His face gave nothing away, but there was a jaunty lilt to the way he rolled back his shoulders, and Ethari suspected he was the sort used to causing fluster with half a glance.

_ Stupid hot people. Walking around, being hot.  _

They needed a law reform _ ,  _ he decided.

_ Good thing breaking the law is sexy. _

Ethari suppressed a giddy smile and leaned forward on the counter, propping a fist beneath his chin. “What would you recommend, then?” 

There was a hum and a click as the machine shut off, and the barista pulled the pitcher away. He spun in a flashy circle, took the mug in one hand and leveled the pitcher over the other, pouring a steady stream into its depths. 

He was perfectly poised, perfectly focused, and when he raised his head and leveled that intensity on Ethari, he rolled his tongue against a flustered laugh.

He set the mug on the counter and tapped his finger against the side. 

“I’d recommend this,” he said. 

Ethari furrowed his brow. “Doesn’t that belong to a customer?” 

The barista hummed. “It was mine, actually.” 

Ethari raised his hands. "Then I'm definitely not going near it. I'll bet you bite the head off anyone who gets too close to your drinks."

"Bold assumption." The barista hummed. "But not wrong."

"Right, so I'll just get —"

"I could just make another," the barista interrupted. He shot Ethari a teasing smile. "This is my job, and I expect I'm rather decent at it."

Ethari was going to protest further. After his fuck-up of a morning, he was rather wanting to cry into a puddle of whipped cream and hazelnut creamer, but after watching the care that had went into the creation of the drink, he felt obliged to show his appreciation. 

He settled for a sunny smile as he reached for the mug, delightfully warm against his chilly fingers. The barista cleared his throat and looked away, and Ethari hid his amusement against the rim of the mug. He took a moment to enjoy the warmth, letting steam build beneath his nose, before he tilted the cup towards his lips. 

It wasn't what he'd expected.

Ethari made a surprised note and pulled away. He eyed the contents of the mug with sudden suspicion. "What  _ is  _ this?"

The barista huffed a laugh. “It’s a latte,” he said. 

“What did you  _ do  _ to it?”

“There’s nothing added in there, if that’s what you mean,” the barista said. “Just espresso and milk.” 

Ethari stared at him for a long moment, then took another sip to be certain. He squeaked on his swallow. “Yes,  _ that _ . Why does it taste like  _ flowers _ ?” 

A raised brow. “You’ve a perceptive palate.” The barista tapped a finger against his bottom lip. “I do prefer floral notes to an earthy tone.” 

“‘Floral notes?’ ” Ethari let out a startled laugh. “As in wine? Or tea?” 

“Yes, exactly like wine or tea.”

Ethari hummed, setting his arms on the counter, mug still in hand. “Tell me more,” he said. 

The barista copied his position, forearms pulling taught in his cuffed sleeves. Ethari noted the motion with distracted interest. 

“Are you asking because you’d like to know, or because you feel guilty for not liking the drink I gave you for free?” 

Ethari blinked. “Oh. It’s not that I don’t like it. Just not what I was expecting. It’s pleasant, really.” He took another swig to prove his point, and it  _ was _ , just perhaps not something he’d get a second time —

The barista chuckled. “I almost believe you. You’re a poor actor, if an earnest one —” He cut off and cocked his head, and Ethari took his upward inflection as a question. 

“I’m Ethari,” he said. 

The barista inclined his head. “Runaan.”

“Runaan,” Ethari echoed. “I’ve never heard that before. What’s it mean?” 

Runaan waved a hand. “Something posh and European, I’m sure.”

Ethari grinned. “Fitting.”

“Hm.” Runaan folded his arms. “How about this: you show me where you’re sitting, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about the brewing process.” 

“You’re not going to get yelled at for sitting with a customer, are you?” he asked.

Runaan blinked. “...No.”

Ethari relaxed. “Good. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.” 

“I do plenty fine with that on my own,” Runaan said lightly. 

He stepped out from behind the bar before Ethari could ask, brushing himself off and indicating that Ethari should lead. Ethari noted his clothing, gray trousers pressed to a crisp knife’s edge, and… were those  _ steel-toed boots _ ? 

“Don’t you want to make yourself a drink first?” 

“I don’t drink on the job,” Runaan said, deadpan.

Ethari laughed just a little too loudly at the sudden humor as he headed to the window. He slipped into his bar stool at the high countertop, and Runaan took the seat beside him.

There was a moment where neither of them spoke, and Ethari took a drink to outlast the silence. “The flavor’s changed,” he said, suspicious of his odd drink, growing odder by the second.

“That’s what happens when coffee cools,” Runaan said. “The flavor has time to bloom.” 

“You sound like Ted Allen,” Ethari teased. 

“You don’t mean the wine connoisseur, I hope?” 

“Oh, you actually know him.” 

“Unfortunately.” Runaan grimaced. “A prat, if I ever knew one.”

Ethari, deciding it was best not to ask, puzzled over another sip. 

Runaan’s eyes fixed on Ethari’s face as if reading his mind. “You don’t have to drink it just because it’s free,” he allowed, somewhat reluctantly.

“Yeah, about that.” Ethari set the mug down and toyed with the handle while he searched for the right words. "I, uh, the sheriff already gave me a gift card—"

Runaan’s expression shifted, and his tone sharpened. "Sheriff?" 

“Yeah, he called the tow for me before I came here. Nice guy.” 

“Not the word I’d have used,” Runaan snipped. “I keep his old-fashioned pumpkin spice doughnuts on tap, and he still doesn’t come by more than once a week.”

“Is that...bad?” 

Runaan sniffed. “ _ Ungrateful _ .”

“Oh, I —  _ oh, oh! _ ” Ethari grabbed his backpack and bolted from his chair. Across the street, a bright, yellow tow truck was pulling to a stop in front of his car. He hurtled for the door, skidded to a halt when his manners screamed that he hadn’t yet said thank you, and turned for a quick, “Thanks for the, uh, conversation.”

Runaan twitched, clearly noting the dance around mention of his coffee. “Come back tomorrow,” he blurted.

“...What?”

“I’ll make you something you like. Anything you like,” Runaan said, too quickly. “Come back tomorrow.”

Ethari glanced outside. The truck driver had halted the ignition and popped his head out the window.

Noticing his hesitation, Runaan added,“Please. I owe you for the cat.”

Ethari cocked his head. “And I owe  _ you  _ for the coffee.”

“Ah.” Runaan made a face. “You didn’t even like it. I  _ want  _ you to like it. Let me try again.”

The barista seemed genuinely troubled, and Ethari melted a little. He had no right looking that adorable pouting over coffee. He took a second to figure out what he’d be doing tomorrow for transport. 

_ Rental car? Bus? Borrow Lujanne’s old beater? Ugh, rental. _

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I could use it tomorrow. Work’s gonna be a bitch.” 

Runaan’s face lit, and it left Ethari a little breathless. “See you tomorrow, then.”

Ethari grinned warmly. “Tomorrow, then,” he agreed. 

With a friendly nod of farewell, he headed out across the street. Though the chilly air sucked away the warmth of the shop, it couldn’t touch the tiny flutter in his tummy at the thought of seeing Runaan again. 

*

Runaan woke before his alarm, as per usual. 

He rolled over and hit the clock before the pesky buzzer could go off, then returned to his side. He lay there in the early morning dark, staring at the wall and counting his breaths, mind blank as radio static. 

Three minutes passed — he knew because he counted — before he drew the blankets off and flexed upright. The three minutes he allowed himself, 5:28 to 5:31, only a minute off schedule, but a minute all the same, because fuck life. 

He found his desk chair in the dark and prised off the clothes he’d set the night before, a teal undershirt, because Lain said he looked good in pastels, and charcoal dress pants he’d ironed fresh the previous evening. He padded into the adjoining bathroom, set his clothes beside the sink, and slipped out of his shorts. It was chilly, since he shut the heat off at night, but he knew that to be a temporary condition, so he suffered the journey. 

He didn’t feel like turning on the lights, so he showered in the dark, the water hot enough to burn. His hands scrubbed at his skin roughly, almost angrily, and he knew his flesh was turning flush, from heat and abrasion, and it soothed him. 

Runaan shut the water off when he felt he was clean, stepped out and dressed by feel alone. There were no windows in his bathroom, no smoke alarms to flash on the ceiling, nothing to distract from the weighted darkness that slung heavy across his shoulders, muting, caressing. Last, he cuffed his sleeves, a ritual which had started as a way to keep the stains out but now was merely to keep from getting claustrophobic in his own clothing. 

Habit was his life, was his bane.

He opened the door, squinting and scowling against unwelcome light. 

_ Six o' clock on a winter morning, you'd think the sun would get the memo.  _

The summer was lazy this year, lurking at the edges of the cold months, lengthening days and passing warmth. Most were happy about it, he mused, fastening his tie around his neck. Not him. The winter was his solace, the snows hush, the sky dampened to soot. He knew that it was supposed to be blue, but he always thought it looked better in shades of gray. 

Runaan decided to skip breakfast, thinking he'd use the extra time to reorder the shelves. They'd been getting messy, so close to the holiday rush. He brushed his teeth, folded his hair so that it rested proper against his back, and grabbed his keys from the hook beside the fridge. 

Outside, it was freezing, and his face stung from the shift in temperature. He hurried to his car, bundled inside and blasted the heat. He muttered a curse as he fastened his seatbelt. It'd be a few minutes before the engine warmed enough to make a difference. 

He'd just shifted into drive, hands settled on the wheel, when his phone buzzed, sending a shaky vibration up his left hip. Foot on the break, he reached into his pocket and checked the caller ID.

He hissed through his teeth.

" _ Goddamn _ it." 

Angrily, he shoved the car into park, worked his jaw for a moment, then accepted the call.

"What."

Runaan's voice was flat and clipped. The voice on the other end was decidedly cheery.

"Heyyy, Runaan, what's up?" 

Runaan pulled the phone from his ear and squinted down at it suspiciously. "Are you eating something?"

"Yeah! That's why I called in the first place: to ask how many cinnamon rolls you have left in stock."

Runaan groaned. "Oh my God, Lain, you're such an asshole." 

Lain's smile was evident even through his mouthful. "I know you don't mean that, Runaan. How you're this grumpy after breakfast, I'll never understand."

After ten seconds of poignant silence, Lain gasped. 

"Oh my God. You didn't eat breakfast?"

"You make it sound like I've pondered murder." 

" _ Yeah, _ you have. Runaan, if you don't eat breakfast, you dissolve into a puddle of malnourished cells, and then how do you suppose you'll snob all your customers?" 

Runaan scoffed. "I do not  _ snob _ . I educate them if they show suitable interest."

"I 'educate' them," Lain mocked airily. "That is the snootiest description of customer service I've ever heard. Whatever, fam, I'm bringing you a muffin."

"Wha —  _ no  _ —"

The line went dead.

Runaan stared at his phone, a stream of colorful curses kept on constant standby, then registered the time. 

6:26. 

The twenty-six minutes he'd gained by skipping breakfast were no longer applicable.

"Fuck."

He reared into drive and set off down the road.

Runaan fiddled with the keys, cursing at cold fingers and crooked locks. Finally, there was a  _ click _ , and the door slid open, Runaan piling inside, huffing at his door. He would call the handyman tomorrow, he decided. That lock was a ticking time bomb, and it wouldn’t do for him to wait until it failed. 

He flicked the lights on and cranked the thermostat, settled against the bar while he waited for the heat to miracle the cold away. Thirty minutes later, he had checked inventory in the back room, handled a couple of accountings, and adjusted the grind to suit the temperature. He was sealing the lid on a container when the door opened, setting the bells asway with a jaunty chime. 

Runaan spun around. “I’m sorry, we’re not open — “

“Yes you are,” Lain said merrily, tossing a paper bag on the counter as he sidled across the room. “There are no limitations on friendship.” 

Runaan scoffed and picked up the bag. He picked it apart and peered inside. “What flavor did you get?”

“Cinnamon,” Lain said, continuing over Runaan’s grumbling protestations. “You need to try new things. It’s not good for you to be such a stickler for routine. Besides” — Lain offered a winning smile — “I know you’re still sore over the cinnamon buns.” 

“Yeah.” Runaan eyed the muffin for a moment, then took a moody bite. “You’ve been keeping a tight monopoly since October.” 

Lain flopped dramatically against the countertop and threw an arm over his forehead. “It’s these long winter months beating me down. Only the cinnamon buns can keep me from insanity. Panacea, you know.”

“Well,” Runaan said around a mouthful, “they’re not doing a very good job, since you went insane a long time ago. Also, I don’t think it’s the cinnamon buns keeping you sane so much as the baker behind them.” 

Lain smiled dreamily. “She gave me half off last week. And that” — he nodded to Runaan’s muffin — “I got that for free.” 

“To get you out quicker,” Runaan said. “Tiadrin doesn’t do mercy.” 

“Aw, of course she does,” Lain cried. “Don’t you remember that last time she didn’t kick you out of the store even though you were dripping rain and mud all over the floor?” 

“Because I owed her a check for the previous week. You have selective memory when it comes to her.”

“You bet I do.” 

Runaan checked his watch. 

7:40.

“Okay, you need to go,” Runaan said. “I open in twenty minutes, and I still need to finish setting up.” 

“Aw, c’mon, so what if I’m here? Just pretend I’m a customer.”

Runaan stared at him. “Lain, you open in twenty minutes, too.” 

“So I do.” Lain sighed and set a grave hand on his shoulder. “Right. I’ll see you, sometime. Later. Maybe not today. But definitely tomorrow. But also maybe today.” 

“Yes, okay, goodbye.”

Runaan shoved him in the direction of the door, and Lain slipped out with a last “See you, bro.” 

Runaan found he could breathe easier with Lain outside and firmly on his way down the block to his own cafe. It was hard for him, when Lain dropped in, and suddenly half-assed anything wasn’t good enough anymore. That was the trouble with caring for people. Relationships required things like commitment and effort and niceties, all languages he had not spoken in years. Other people would say it was good for him, that the counter to negative habits was positive habits, but he didn’t always feel like doing what was good for him. 

The morning rush began mere minutes after he twisted the sign to OPEN, and he busied himself with brewing, steaming, and frothing. It was comforting in a way previous jobs had never been, seeing a customer out with an order nothing less than impeccable, because in the end all he wanted was to serve well. He knew better than to expect Ethari as his first, yet still he found himself quelling minor disappointments again and again throughout the day. In most things he was rational, but romantic feelings, blasted things that they were, always seemed to boggle the delicate ecosystem of his mind. When the morning began to wane, he told himself Ethari would stop by at lunch, but then noon came and went, and the worry set in. 

Despite his earlier dismissal, he called Lain right after the noonday rush.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Lain reassured him. 

“Lain, you don’t understand, this is the same guy who wrecked his car for a cat.” Runaan worried at his lip and shifted his stance against the long partition on the side of the bar. “What if something’s happened?” 

“Runaan, what sort of something could have possibly happened in  _ one day  _ —”

“Lain, are you eating again?” 

“Yeah, what’d you think, I finished four dozen cinnamon rolls in less than a week?” 

“ _ No _ , but —” 

“All I’m saying is,” Lain interrupted, smacking his lips loudly, “you worry a lot. Like,  _ a lot _ . Maybe, just this once, you  _ don’t _ have to worry over the guy not coming at the time he  _ didn’t _ specify the day after an  _ accident _ .” 

Now, that sounded an awful lot like teasing.

Runaan shut his eyes and pressed a thumb to his temple. “Thanks for the not-advice, man. Super helpful.” 

Lain made a sound like he was laughing, except his mouth was full of pastry, and that went about as well as one could expect it to. “Listen, you shun optimism like you shun religion, so someone’s gotta do it for you.” There was a meaningful pause. “Although, from what you’ve already told me, it sounds like this guy might be better at it than me.” 

Runaan thought back to what little interaction he’d had with the man and couldn’t help but agree. Ethari exuded a lightness he’d seen in few other people, the sort of easy confidence that seemed to rub off on those it happened upon, himself included. 

“You could say that,” he said softly.

“Oh, my  _ God _ , Runaan.” Lain made an urgent sound in the back of his throat. “That — that voice you just used. This is better than I thought.”

“What? What voice?” He furrowed his brow. “Better how?” 

“Runaan.” Lain exhaled very slowly. “Answer honestly. On a scale of one to ten, how hot is he?” 

“ _ What _ ?” Runaan spluttered. “What sort of question is that?” 

“Oh, my God. Omigod. This. Is. Wonderful.” Lain squealed very quietly. “When can I meet him?” 

“ _ Lain _ ,” Runaan hissed, “I don’t even know if he’s coming back yet. Why the  _ hell  _ are you so excited?” 

“Because,” Lain drew the word out, as if what he was about to say was of utmost importance, “you almost sounded like a human, with real human feelings, and now I’m trying to imagine the hunk of a man who could just  _ do  _ that —”

Runaan groaned. “Are we really doing this right now? Why are we doing this?”

“Oh, quit whining. It’s good for you.”

“Look, here comes a customer,” Runaan said loudly. “Bye.”

“Runaan, wait —”

Runaan hung up the phone, then after a moment’s pause, shut it off completely. Lain was down the street, for God’s sake. If he wanted to speak so badly, he could walk over here after closing hours.

Runaan tried not to think too hard after that, however unsuccessfully, setting his focus on his work instead. He was quite good at that, and he took solace in the fact that a single meeting with a hot man had not stripped him of all coherency. When next he checked his watch, it was half an hour to closing time. 

He looked out the window that overlooked the street, the side rote of trees and the proxied halo that the setting sun brushed along their edges. 

_ I suppose he’s not coming, then _ , Runaan sighed. 

Well. There was nothing he could do about it. Not like that would stop him worrying, but it was what he was supposed to tell himself, right? 

He was preparing for a final cleaning when he heard voices on the street. He glanced outside, but whoever was talking, they were too far from the window to be seen. Shaking his head, he turned back to the counter and a stain in the wood that was making itself a bit too comfortable for his liking. The voices did not recede as he’d have expected for a couple of passersby, and after three minutes of steady conversation, he set his washcloth down and went to the door to investigate. 

Runaan caught his breath to see Ethari standing not ten feet from his door, smiling at someone inside the neighboring bakery. He leaned against the open door, side in profile, and when Runaan stepped outside, he half-turned to see who it was. 

His face lit up. He turned back to the bakery for a quick farewell before letting the door go. Runaan tried very hard to keep his expression neutral, but it seemed he hadn’t done a very good job because the first thing Ethari did was furrow his brow and ask, “Are you alright, Runaan?” 

“No, I — I mean, yes, I’m fine.” Runaan cleared his throat. “Are  _ you  _ alright?”

“Aside from slamming my car into a tree yesterday, I’m just swell.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good. The part about being fine, not the crashing your car bit.” Runaan hesitated, and added more softly, “I...was worried.” 

Ethari raised both brows. “Well, that has a crushing note of finality to it.” He smiled teasingly and gestured to the door. “Maybe let’s continue inside? It is the middle of November.” 

Inside, they hung at the welcome mat for a long moment, Runaan trying to think of what to say, Ethari as fascinated by the decor as he’d been the first time. 

Eventually, Ethari looked at him. “Are we going in or…?” 

“Right, of course.” Runaan took his place behind the bar, and Ethari stood facing him in a mirror of their position yesterday. 

“What’ll you give me today?” Ethari asked, but Runaan tapped his thumb against the counter, then looked up at Ethari.

“You took your time,” he said, pausing long enough that it sounded more like a question than a statement. 

“What do you —” Ethari blinked as if a thought had just struck him. “Runaan, have you been waiting since the morning?” 

“Uhm…”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Ethari blurted. He brought a hand up to his temple. “I just thought I’d come in after work instead of before, so I wouldn’t have to rush?” 

“But,  _ Ethari _ ,” Runaan said gravely, “I close at five.”

“Shit.” Ethari shot a furtive glance at the wall clock. “I didn’t know. I could come back tomorrow —”

“No, no,” Runaan said quickly. “it’s 4:53, we still have time.” 

Ethari let out a startled laugh. “Alright? For seven minutes, or…?”

Runaan cocked his hip against the counter. “I don’t mind a bit of overtime to satisfy a customer, Ethari. Besides, I owe you a drink you  _ like _ .”

“Yeah?” Ethari relaxed onto his heels and smiled a bit. “And will that be left up to you or my inferior palate?” 

“Hm.” Runaan tapped his chin, as if considering. “I suppose you can have this one.”

Ethari raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure you won’t find it too offensive?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, then, a blonde flat white with two sugars and vanilla or hazelnut.” 

Runaan cringed, and Ethari stifled a laugh. 

“I suppose,” Runaan said faintly, “hazelnut is the lesser of two evils.” 

Runaan set to fixing the tamp, and Ethari settled against the other side of the counter to watch. There was something endearing about waiting to be cared for, even if it was a task so technically insignificant — a barista doing his job. Still, Runaan had taken the time to learn his name and was now making note of his preferences, even though it clearly pained his  _ refined  _ sensibilities, a point which Ethari found both puzzling and cute.

Runaan hesitated before he added the creamer and carried the drink over with an air of resignation. 

Ethari tried very hard not to laugh as he took the proffered mug. “You’re sure you want me to drink this?” 

“Of course. If it pleases you, it pleases me.” 

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, but Ethari didn’t comment. He instead busied himself with inspecting the contents of the mug, which, he noted, had been embellished with a lively rosetta. 

He shot a glance at Runaan before raising the mug to his lips and sneaking a taste. His brows shot up.

Runaan regarded him nervously. “What is it?”

“Runaan, this is  _ wonderful _ .” 

Runaan blinked. “Really?”

“Really.” Ethari took a pointed sip. “I mean, none of the flavors overpower the other ones, it’s not so hot that I can’t drink it. You don’t practice these in your spare time or something?” 

“Actually, I can’t remember the last time I had a — an embellished coffee.” Runaan continued as if he hadn’t stuttered, “I’m surprised it’s anything more than passable.” 

Ethari chuckled. “It’s certainly better than  _ passable _ .” 

Runaan seemed pleased with the praise. He stepped out from around the bar and gestured to a nearby table. “Shall we sit?” 

“Ah…” Ethari glanced at the wall clock, made of a pretty, straight-grained wood he distractedly marked as maple, the minute hand teetering in the space between eleven and twelve. “You close in two minutes.” He turned back to Runaan. “I’ll try for tomorrow, the morning this time —”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s really fine —”

“Ethari.”

Warm fingers brushed his wrist, and Ethari glanced up. Runaan wore an odd plethora of emotions, soft nervousness and a vein of something fragile that gave Ethari pause. 

“I’d take it as a personal favor,” Runaan murmured, and Ethari found himself nodding despite himself. 

They sat at the center table, which had been occupied the previous day. Ethari had to admit it was far more comfortable sitting at a table at a proper height. Despite years of cafe experience, he still had not deduced the purpose of those unnecessarily high countertops.

Ethari set the mug between his palms and regarded Runaan, a task made far easier by their proximity and the fact that it was not particularly rude to do so in a mutual exchange. Runaan took a while to settle, and even though he eventually fell into stillness, he did not quite relax, posture drawn, hands laid on the table before him in a way that should have been easy but just was  _ not _ . 

Ethari had met people like that, one person in particular, who didn’t trust others to meet their needs, who saw the single cloud on a sunny day, and while the past had made him aversive to similar such people, he was partnered well enough with kindness to keep from hasty labels.

He raised his mug to his lips and swallowed back the bitterness of his thoughts. When he finished, he raised his mug into the air and asked, “Where’s yours? That’s the second time in a row you’ve neglected yourself.”

“I don’t drink caffeine this late in the day,” Runaan explained. 

Ethari hummed. “Trouble sleeping?” 

“You could say that.” 

“Is it that bad?”

Runaan smiled wryly. “I went to Fiji once. It took four months to convince my body that the sun meant morning.”

Ethari sighed internally.

_ Can’t relax, can’t sleep... Not a great start. _

“Fiji?” he asked. “How’d you get there? Aren’t tickets like a thousand bucks?” 

Runaan pursed his lips. “That’s economy. I went first class.” 

Ethari almost spat out his coffee. “You  _ what _ ? How much did that cost?” 

“Well, first class is at a 200 percent increase for domestic flights and 400 for international —” 

“ _ God, _ Runaan,” Ethari interrupted, “who paid for that?” 

“HR at the job I no longer work at.” 

That had the sound of a promising story, but not the sort you asked about upon first meetings. 

“They have deep pockets.”

“Lined with diamond, it sounds like,” Ethari added.

Runaan scoffed. “And they’re sure to cut themselves every time they reach for a bill.” 

Ethari shifted in his seat. Something about the way Runaan spoke unsettled him, a distinctly dark edge to his demeanor that was not noticeable at first glance, probably not even at second or third, but Ethari was well tuned to people and their tells, and Runaan was perhaps not as good at hiding them as he thought he was. 

Still, the other side of him, the one that insisted he give Ethari a drink he liked and hesitated on the doorstep of his own shop, belied a sensitivity behind his pristine mask, and that was intriguing enough that he ignored his unease. 

Runaan seemed to sense his feelings, because he winced and said, “Sorry, we didn’t part on the...best of terms.” 

Ethari regained himself and smiled graciously. “Ah, I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you make it to be. What’d you do? Miss one too many deadlines?”

Runaan hesitated. “Not exactly.”

“No judgement here. I set fire to my last boss’s car.” 

That startled a laugh out of him. “That’s something, though I think I still have the one-up on you.” 

Ethari propped his chin on his fist. “Do tell.” 

“I threatened to leak confidential information to the media if the CEO of the company didn’t terminate our contract.”

Ethari’s hand slipped, and he barely kept himself from face-planting into his coffee. “I —  _ Runaan _ , you can go to jail for that,” he blurted.

“Unlikely. I’m too useful, and they still haven’t given up on re-recruitment.” 

_ God, he makes it sound like he used to be part of X-Men or something.  _

Ethari wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating for effect, but from what little he’d seen of the man, Runaan didn’t seem the type. 

Runaan cleared his throat. “What about you? What do you do?”

“A lot of things,” Ethari said. At Runaan’s expression, he laughed. “I’m serious. I could never decide on just one, so I do them all.”

“And what’s ‘all?’ ” Runaan asked hesitantly. 

“Gosh, uh… Carpentry, handywork, jewelcraft, all sorts of things. Mostly, I do whatever’s in demand at that point in time.”

Runaan shifted. “That’s… How do you keep your focus? I think I’d get lost if I tried so many things at once.” 

“I’ve been practicing for years,” Ethari said. “I don’t have to think about it anymore. When I was little, I liked taking things apart to see how they worked. I got into engineering in college, which made my parents happy, although I’m not sure how far those feelings go anymore.” 

“Are they very critical of what you do?” 

“Nah, more worried than anything. I think they expected me to get a standard degree and job like my brothers, and now that I haven’t, they’re just waiting for the day I lose everything.”

“That must be hard,” Runaan said. 

Ethari sighed. “It’s not great, but it’s not bad, either. They still love me. Plenty of people aren’t so lucky.”

Runaan studied him for a long moment, eyes searching. Eventually, he said, “It’s a rare person who acknowledges his advantages rather than his disparities.”

“It’s a choice, like any other, Runaan.”

Runaan went oddly quiet, the silence stretching taut between them. He clearly wanted to say something, so Ethari kept quiet, hoping Runaan would take the bait. When he didn’t, Ethari didn’t press.

“Alright,” he said, “your turn. What do you do?” 

Runaan looked up at him, then raised a quizzical brow. 

He chuckled. “Not  _ here,  _ obviously. I mean — hobbies, interests? Anything you’re good at besides coffee and glowering?” 

Runaan hesitated for a moment. Then another. He seemed at a genuine loss. Finally, he said, “I can hit a range target at 700 yards?”

Ethari stared at him. “Okay, no.  _ Runaan _ . What do you do in your free time? To relax?”

“Talk to Lain?” Runaan suggested. “I don’t really have free time.” 

“What about weekends? Holidays?” 

“Weekends, I restock inventory, and holidays I prep specials.”

With each rejection, Ethari’s worry grew. “And you see no issue with that?”

“No... Do you?”

Ethari ran a hand through his hair, struggling to rein in his distress. It would do no good, he knew, merely confuse or irritate. “Just a little,” he admitted. “Runaan, people need to relax to function. You’ll crash if you don’t.” 

Runaan shrugged. “I’ve managed just fine up until now. I’m sure it’s not issue.” 

Ethari was silent.

He could tell Runaan that his was a surefire path to ruin. Or he could keep his thoughts to himself and  _ show  _ him the alternative, by being attentive and  _ listening _ . He had a feeling the first approach would do more harm than good, so he kept quiet and moved on.

They talked for a while after that, and it was lighter. Odd, that. Ethari was used to it going the other way around — the trivial first, the dark edges later — but he had a feeling it was meant to go that way with Runaan. The burrs were there to keep people away. One had to endure the sharp edges before they could find the softer truth within, and God, did he  _ want  _ to. Runaan had an intensity that was intoxicating, true, but he was also thoughtful and sensitive. His manner had been blunted, but he was good in the ways that  _ mattered _ .

It didn’t hurt that he had a face like a classical painting. 

An hour later, Ethari’s stomach growled, and Runaan said he’d grab something from the kitchen. Ethari tried to wave him off, but Runaan insisted. It was rather charming. He settled into his seat, pulling his phone out while he waited.

The smell of baking sugar announced Runaan’s arrival even before he pushed the kitchen door open, and Ethari glanced up to watch his approach from across the room. 

Runaan had a tray of biscuits in one hand and, somehow, a pair of mugs in the other. Ethari saw him struggling, abandoned his phone on the table and hurried over to help. Runaan seemed a touch chagrined.

Ethari laughed. “What’re you grumpy about?” 

“It was supposed to be a graceful entrance,” Runaan grumbled, “for effect.” 

“I assure you, the effect is still there.” Ethari set the tray down and leaned in for a proper sniff. “What is that? It smells wonderful.” 

Runaan seated himself primly and gave a sideways smile. “Shortbread. I had leftovers in the freezer from Lain’s birthday.”

Ethari raised his brows. “So you bake, too?”

“Tiadrin did,” Runaan said. 

“Oh! Tiadrin from the —” Ethari pointed out the window. “Down the —” 

“Next door, yeah.” Runaan’s brow furrowed. “You’ve met?”

Ethari nodded. “I was talking with her just before I came over here. I guess you got me curious about the local food.” 

Ethari took a biscuit as if to prove his point. His eyes went wide, then relaxed on a wondering sigh. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the coffee wizard is friends with a baking witch.” 

Runaan snorted. “I’ll tell her you called her a witch. She’ll get a kick out of that.” 

“Hmm.” Ethari popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. His eyes slid along the rippling lights that dappled the wall, noting curiously that they’d gone dim as the evening progressed. A neat feature, though he supposed it was only useful in the dark winter months. 

Ethari glanced back to Runaan and frowned at the mug in his hand. “I thought you didn’t drink this late.” 

“It’s tea,” Runaan said. “Ten times less caffeine.”

“Oo, tea,” Ethari said wonderingly. “Good for biscuits.” 

Runaan chuckled. “That, it is.”

They ate in comfortable quiet, the tea disappearing alongside the diminishing shortbread mountain.

When he’d finished his tea, Ethari swallowed and snuck the final biscuit from the tray. “Well, this was lovely,” he began, “but it’s getting late, and I should probably get going.” 

Runaan nodded graciously. “Of course.”

A high, keening chime sounded from the kitchen, and Runaan shoved out of his seat, cursing. 

“Shit,” he muttered, hurrying across the room towards the kitchen. He called over his shoulder, “Just — just hold a minute!” 

Ethari waited for a bewildered minute, shifting on his feet until Runaan pushed back in and rushed over to meet him.

“Here,” Runaan said, flushed and a bit breathless. He held out a paper bag, the bottom still damp with steam. 

Ethari’s lips curled. “You didn’t have to run,” he said. “I wasn’t going anywhere.” 

Runaan coughed, blushing. “I...thought you were in a hurry.” 

Ethari swallowed another teasing comment and instead softened his expression to a fond smile. He took a peek inside the bag, and his smile broadened. “Thank you,” he murmured, “for the gift, and for your consideration.” 

Runaan’s eyes widened a fraction at his abrupt shift in demeanor, gaze skittering to the side. “It’s no problem.” His voice had dropped to match Ethari’s, and for a long moment, they were still.

“I should go,” Ethari said again, a bare breath above a whisper. 

“You should.” He hesitated. “I’d very much like to see you again. Maybe — over dinner?” 

Ethari raised his eyes to the ceiling and bit his lip on a smile. “It’s been a while,” he admitted. 

Runaan didn’t say anything, and he realized his response was easy to misconstrue. He shifted, meeting Runaan’s eyes and took a step closer. 

“I would love to,” he said honestly, and Runaan relaxed notably. 

“I can give you my number?” Runaan offered, and Ethari took it. 

In bed, Ethari hovered for a long moment beneath the covers. He’d been occupied with thoughts of Runaan for the better part of the evening, and he decided to humor his impulses in the hopes that it might ease his racing mind. He pulled his phone up off the floor and tapped out a short message, hesitating for a moment before he hit send. He exhaled and let his phone fall atop his chest, shutting his eyes and waiting for sleep to come. 

Thirty seconds later, he gave up and set to scrolling facebook.

His phone chimed. Runaan paused with toothbrush in his mouth and tilted his head to read his notifications. 

And he smiled.


End file.
